Chapter 19
CHAPTER NINETEEN
“You might want to change the batteries.”
Shit.
He whirled around and glared at Enya. “I didn’t hear you coming down the hall.”
“That’s because I was in the living room with Trident.
” Enya leaned against the doorway, her frame swallowed by the oversized hoodie she’d borrowed from him weeks ago and never given back.
The fabric hung loose around her wrists, the cuffs rolled up haphazardly, as if she’d dressed in a hurry—or in the dark.
Dark circles bruised the skin beneath her eyes, deep and violet-tinged.
Her hair, usually pulled back in a tight braid, was a mess of loose waves, some strands clinging to the dampness at her temples.
But her gaze was sharp, unnervingly so as if she knew of the horrors he was avoiding in his dreams.
“What, no Frog or cat tonight?” That surprised him as almost every night for the last three weeks, Enya, the dogs, and the kitten Gael had kept despite his protests, had curled themselves up on the couch, passing the darkest part of the night by watching the fire burn down to Embers.
“He and Poppy went to bed with Gael.” She padded into the kitchen and opened the cupboard. She surprised him by pulling out two glasses instead of the usual mugs for hot chocolate they’d been having about this time each night. “Tonight might be a night for something a little stronger than I am.”
Damn, her dreams must have sucked as much as mine did.
Or she’d heard him shout as he’d jerked awake.
Rowan went to the living room and opened the drinks cabinet. “Well, crap.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Looks like we’re out of Jack Daniels.” He was going to kick Gael’s ass in the morning for not putting it on the grocery haul list. “You want gin or vodka?”
She wrinkled her nose. “Umm, not unless I want a raging hangover tomorrow.”
“Let’s not do that then.” He cocked his head to one side, trying to figure out if inviting her into his inner domain was the right move or not. “Not in the house, anyway.” He jerked his chin toward the window over the sink. “I have a stash of something decent in my office, if you’re game.”
“Yes, yes, I am. Lead the way.”
There’s only one glass in the office.
Rowan grabbed a tumbler from the cupboard and placed it on the table so he’d remember to bring it with him.
“Lemme just go put on jeans.” Because if it was a struggle to keep his semi-hard dick from becoming a raging hard-on when he was sober, with a few drinks in him, there was no chance he’d be able to stop it from happening.
“I’ll do the same.”
It took less than five minutes for them to come back to the kitchen, collect the glass from the table, and make it out the door. They walked side by side to the barn. The door groaned as he shoved it open, the hinges protesting with a high, metallic whine.
Damn, that’s like sending an alarm out to everyone on the property.
He flipped on a single light before he closed the door again and led the way through the tack room to his office.
He clicked on the desk lamp, its yellow glow pooling unevenly over the scattered ledgers and the half-empty bottle of Knob Creek with its label peeling slightly at one corner.
The light caught the dust motes dancing in the air, tiny golden specks suspended in the stillness.
Momma would kick my ass for leaving this place like a pigsty. I really should clean up in here.
Enya perched on the edge of the worn leather couch against the far wall, her fingers found the split seam along the armrest, and she traced the jagged line where the stitching had given way years ago.
Hah, I knew she’d do that.
The leather was cracked with age, the cushion beneath her sagging slightly under her weight. She didn’t sink into it, though. Just balanced there, poised, like she was ready to bolt at any second, or like she was afraid if she relaxed, even for a moment, the memories would catch up to her.
Rowan didn’t ask if she wanted a drink. He already knew the answer. He poured two fingers of Knob Creek into each glass and carried the glasses over to the couch.
“Do men keep a secret stash of Knob Creek like I keep a secret stash of Cadbury’s chocolate?” She took the tumbler, her knuckles brushing his as she wrapped her fingers around the glass, and she swirled the liquid, watching the way it clung to the glass.
Rowan sank into the couch next to her, the old springs protesting under his weight with a tired groan. “It’s not really a secret stash when it’s on my desk for all to see… is it?” The first sip burned all the way down and settled in his chest, chasing away the last remnants of sleep.
“Hmm, I see.” Enya still hadn’t touched her drink. Her thumb pressed against the rim of the glass, her nail pale against the amber. “Yours were pretty bad tonight, too, then,” she said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper. “Your dreams.”
Whoa, left field me there, why don’t you?
His fingers tightened around his glass, and he set it down harder than he meant to, so he didn’t crush it as his hands fisted tightly. “Not dreams,” he corrected, the words coming out harsher than he intended. His jaw clenched, the muscle feathering along his cheekbone. “Memories.”
Enya didn’t offer empty comfort, but she nodded sagely.
“Yeah,” she murmured, the syllable barely more than a breath.
“That’s the word for ‘em.” She raised her glass to her mouth, but just as it touched her lips, a thunderclap shattered the night in a violent crack that split the air like a gunshot.
The glass jerked in her hand, a few drops sloshing over the rim onto her fingers.
Her breath hitched, and her body went rigid as the sound echoed through the barn, the building amplifying it, making it sound louder and closer.
Rowan refused to flinch. He’d heard that sound many times, both in storms and in firefights, and he refused to allow it to bother him…
mostly he succeeded. But he saw the way her knuckles whitened around the tumbler, and the way her shoulders tensed like she was bracing for impact.
The wind outside picked up, rattling the loose tin panels on the roof, the sound a high, metallic whine that set his teeth on edge.
Rain lashed against the windows, the drops fat and heavy, promising a major downpour was about to be right over their heads.
He studied her out of the corner of his eye and caught how her chest rose and fell too fast. He noted how her free hand pressed flat against the couch cushion, and how her fingers dug into the worn leather.
The next roll of thunder was deeper, longer, the kind that vibrated in your bones.
She flinched again, her breath coming in short, sharp bursts.
Rowan set his glass down without a word, and the couch creaked as he shifted to lay his arm across the back of the couch behind her head.
If she wants to hide in me, she can make the first move.
For a second, she didn’t move at all. Then, with a quiet, shuddering exhale, she slid across the couch until her shoulder brushed his, and she leaned into him.
The storm worsened as the relentless sound of rain hammered the roof.
Lightning flashed, and thunder rolled. But all he could focus on was how Enya’s fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.
He reached for his whiskey again, took a slow sip.
“You know, I used to hate storms,” he told her.
“When I was a kid, I thought the world was ending every time.”
Enya let out a shaky laugh. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” He swirled the liquid in his glass before sipping from it again. “Momma used to tell me and Gael it was just God moving his furniture around. Said if we listened close enough, we could hear the legs scraping the floor.”
Enya snorted a laugh, “That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Back then, we believed it, though.” He watched her drain her glass, “You okay while I grab the bottle?”
“Sure.”
He topped off the glasses, finishing the bottle on his desk, then went to the filing cabinet for the second of his hidden stash and brought it back with him to the couch.
Sometime between finishing the dregs from the first bottle and opening the second, instead of using glasses, they started drinking from the bottle. First Enya, then him, then her again.
The storm outside had turned vicious, the wind howling through the gaps in the barn’s wooden planks like a living thing, rattling the loose hinges of the door.
But the whiskey was warm. Warmer than the air, warmer than the memories that lurked in the shadows of their minds, waiting to drag them under.
Rowan watched the way her throat bobbed with the effort of swallowing, the way her fingers clenched around the bottle before she handed it back.
He drank deeper each time, savoring the amber liquid as it burned its way down, spreading heat through his chest, unravelling the tight knots in his shoulders.
There was something electric in the air, something unspoken humming between them, and it was driving him crazy.
Enya shifted back against the couch, and the hem of her hoodie rode up just enough to expose a sliver of pale skin above the waistband of her jeans.
She didn’t tug the fabric down. Didn’t seem to care.
Instead, she let her head fall back against the cushion, her gaze fixed on the ceiling beams above, the old wood darkened by decades of dust and smoke, the grain rough and uneven.
The lamplight caught the sharp angle of her jaw, the hollow beneath her cheekbone, and the way her fingers drummed restlessly against her thigh.
“You ever think about just… not remembering?” she asked suddenly, her voice rough. The words hung there, raw and unguarded, because both of them knew that kind of question didn’t have an easy answer.